


Stargazing on the Rooftop

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock speak on the rooftop as they gaze at the stars. Sherlock admits to why he is the way he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stargazing on the Rooftop

John Watson fumbled with his keys for a few seconds before successfully gaining himself entry into his flat on Baker Street. He moped up the staircase, kicked off his shoes immediately, and continued to his room, his friend Sherlock noticing his irritated mood. He remained staring at the glowing laptop screen, the slam of John’s door finally causing him to lift his head.

Sherlock had been reading and commenting on John’s blog all day while John was taking a walk or shopping or hitting up fit mothers in the park.

It’d nearly been a year after their first encounter, and so far, John had put up with Sherlock’s isolation fairly well.

Today, however, he overheard some gossip in Tesco’s which had sent him into his funk.

Upstairs, John was grumbling to himself, his mumblings increasing in volume with each lap of his pacing route.

Sherlock was unsure what had set him off, but he wasn’t involved enough to ask. Shouting up to John would take effort, and even then he’d probably get a snarled response. 

However, after the detective heard a trembling swear from John’s direction, he disregarded his previous concerns and stood up from the couch, his laptop finally closed and set on the ground beside him.

He stretched his numb joints as he strode towards the verbal complaints, his blue satin robe swooshing and straightening with the tall man’s new, upright position.

"John," Sherlock called. He was met with silence.

"John, what’s the matter?" Sherlock refrained from letting his exasperation slip into his words, attempted concern replacing it.

After the vibrations and rhythmic galloping of John flying down the stairs, Sherlock’s view was met with his friend’s tired eyes and furrowed brow, his worn countenance hard and displeased.

"John," Sherlock spoke his name with deep ferocity that translated to John as trusting and powerful. Even dominating. 

It sent a small shiver down John’s spine, and he took a cooling breath to force it away.

"Someone said something about you today." He took the last steps down, his height difference catching up to him without its help. Sherlock didn’t relinquish his stern gaze as John shrunk and pushed past him, into the living room. He sought the comfort of his chair and began to speak slowly, carefully, hoping to keep from tripping over his words in anger.

Sherlock resumed his position on the couch, but angled his body to face John, a sign that he was giving him his full attention. He didn’t respond to John’s first segment of words. The second came soon enough.

"I was looking for cucumbers and these two women were fidgeting with the morning’s paper. This was the afternoon, mind you, but it only hit me what they’d said on the way here. I got angry and, well, you know the rest."

"What did they say?" Sherlock wasn’t one to gossip, even when it concerned himself, but it had meant enough to John to cause him to rage, and that thought alone intrigued Sherlock endlessly. Why would John care what people thought of him? He was a complete arse, everyone knew it.

John cracked his neck painfully, “They said that you had too many secrets and a bad history. They said,” he nearly stuttered over his words, which were still coming out slowly and tenderly, “They said that you were just a washed up druggie with too much time and a puppy dog of a partner.”

Sherlock nodded, finally understanding that John had been upset over the comment about himself. This, of course, wasn’t the reason for John’s concern, but Sherlock’s logical mind couldn’t see that.

"Strange… People don’t seem to know of my work. I’d hoped they didn’t, anyway."

John shifted in his seat, “That’s what I thought, so I listened some more as I picked out some cucumbers.” John followed Sherlock’s eyes to his shoes which had been left by the door clumsily, “I… didn’t end up buying anything. I left the money here.”

Sherlock sighed but smirked internally. No fresh vegetables tonight, it seemed. It was too late to start a cooking project anyway. John had been teaching Sherlock to cook, but on days other than those, they mostly ordered out.

"You listened more?" Sherlock urged him to continue.

"Yeah, apparently one of the women had a cousin that had wanted to be a client, and when you refused his plea, his raged on about you."

Sherlock collected the data, including John’s use of you when referring to their line of work. 

"And that’s what set you off?" Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, taking in every form of John as he began to calm down and sort out his feelings. John did that quite a lot. It made up for Sherlock’s impassiveness.

John nodded, “Not entirely. I was upset that I’d left my wallet here, so I had to embarrassingly leave without the groceries. I walked through the park in hopes to maybe meet someone,” Sherlock secretively rolled his eyes when John looked away, “and I analyzed what those twats had said further.”

Sherlock liked when John analyzed things, it was like bits of himself were seeping into John.

The consulting detective, who now had a reputation, it seemed, crossed his long legs and looked at John peculiarly. John continued.

"They called you a druggie."

"I kind of am."

"Not anymore. Lestrade and Mycroft told me that you haven’t in a long time, way before you met me."

John liked to slip himself into conversations about Sherlock. His friend’s narcissism was so high that the occasionally reference of John was nearly unnoticed.

"So you were upset because they called you a dog that followed me around?" Sherlock assumed this reason to be the correct one.

John lied, “Yes.”

The truth was, as was so plain to everyone the men knew, John cared deeply for the man he now spoke to, and any negative connotations John heard about Sherlock immediately set him off. Sherlock was, in fact, the best man John had ever met, and it enraged him when nobody else but he could see why. Of course, he hadn’t spoken this to Sherlock, he didn’t want to seem clingy or anything else he’d been accused of since living with the high strung man.

John stood up, his shoeless feet sliding towards the kitchen. He opened the fridge and plucked a beer from the areas where specimens weren’t, and as he made his way back towards Sherlock, he stopped and turned to put his shoes back on.

After a few seconds of fumbling with one free hand, he slipped out the door and jogged down the staircase.

Sherlock didn’t know if he should’ve followed, but he eventually did, slipping out of his robe and into his long, black coat. He added some shoes and left the way John had.

By the time Sherlock had found John’s form, it was climbing the metal staircase that lead up to the roof on the corner of their street, the last building serving as a portal to the world above.

Sherlock said nothing as he followed John. Although John usually took his orders, the roles were reversed often, and Sherlock complied to each one of John’s requests.

The man clambered up the stairs of the building that was a few doors to the left of their flat, the yellow streetlights serving guide as he rose higher above the city with each careful step.

The metal was cold to Sherlock’s hands which had been typing all day, but the brisk London air was refreshing as it kissed the tips of his high cheeks and sharp nose.

Sherlock emerged from the stairwell and found John walking towards the ledge where a balcony and a bench had been erected. 

John was now prying the beer’s cap off with the underside of the balcony, Sherlock approaching him cautiously.

The taller man leaned on the rail as John was doing, and they stood in silence, John sipping his beer quietly.

The world was dark, the horizon dipping behind the silhouettes of buildings, blues and violets peeking out from the cracks in the skyline. It was evening, darkening by the minute, the stars beginning to creep out.

"They’re beautiful, aren’t they?" John said, raising his face to the stars, which were now beginning to show themselves and shine wonderfully above the men.

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

"I come up here sometimes." John spoke. Sherlock didn’t know that, in fact, he didn’t know that this area existed at all.

Sherlock hummed agreement under his breath, his hands nestling in his pockets for warmth. He felt himself flush as the thought of holding John’s hand instead made its way through his mind palace.

The men stargazed in peaceful silence. They were comfortable saying nothing, which was a difficult trait to achieve, especially in stubborn friendships such as theirs.

"Sherlock," John galvanized the man from his thoughts.

"Hm?"

"What are you?"

Sherlock pondered this same question many times, the dark blue sky seeming endless as it lay splayed with a scatter stars. They looked like holes that someone had poked through with a needle. Sherlock diverted his attention from needles as he said, defensively, “I’m a high strung genius.”

John scoffed, “Yes, you certainly are.”

He took a sip, his beer nearly empty now, the time passing between them calmly.

"I mean, you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You don’t seem to have a lot of empathy… or feelings."

John could feel Sherlock stiffen at that statement, and he nearly regretted saying it, but he was a tad upset that Sherlock hadn’t noticed his concern over those dumb women’s assumptions. It was like Sherlock didn’t know how much he meant to John. It made him quite angry among other things -

His chain of thought was severed by Sherlock’s grumbling voice, “Caring is not an advantage. That’s what Mycroft says.”

"I don’t give a damn what your brother says, I want to know what you say." John had his body facing Sherlock know, his hip and elbow resting on the rail, his eyes tearing Sherlock’s strong profile down into tiny bits hoping to see some evidence that he wasn’t a machine.

"I don’t know what to say, John." Sherlock turned and caught John’s eye as he said his name, the way his lips parting making John sink deeper into himself and question his own sanity.

He took a breath, “People like Donovan, they say that you’re self destructive.” He paused, “I don’t believe that, though. I think you just have a lot of walls up and they’ll be difficult to break down.”

Sherlock reflected on that statement. It was definitely true, but John made it seem like he’d make it his personal mission to tear down his walls, which, although seemed tedious and preposterous, John would be the only person he’d let do it. Sherlock suddenly became aware of what he must look like in the dark, John’s eyes were bearing down on him intensely. It made him worry, but he also liked it.

"Fine. You’ve been so well behaved this past year that you deserve an explanation." Sherlock didn’t know where to begin, but he would try.

John was smug. It was true, he had been on good behavior. The first day they met, Sherlock knew nearly everything about him based on his clothes, cane, posture, and phone alone. He’d said that most people were offended and called him out when he’d make his deductions, but John was fascinated. Of course, after a year of living with him, Sherlock’s constant analyzations would strike a wrong nerve every few weeks, but mostly, it was lovely to experience.

John finally pulled his eyes away and watched the stars once more.

"I know that I’m not as warm as other people, or as caring or compassionate… But when you deal with murder victims and rape victims every day, you can’t afford to be attached. With you," both Sherlock and John’s hearts tightened with anticipation of the next words, "I don’t have to worry about being too callous. Seems as what we have works, as flatmates."

Sherlock mentally sighed, he was afraid that he would have said something idiotic without being able to catch himself. John was the only person to make him feel like an idiot, which was critical when being consulting detective genius Sherlock Holmes.

John nodded, unaware if Sherlock even acknowledged his agreement.

"I understand." He didn’t say any more than that, he just tapped his beer lightly on the rail.

The men stargazed for the next half hour, occasionally speaking of cases or one of John’s ex girlfriends.

They acted as friends just then, friends who could spend silent nights watching the sky, friends who were so stubborn and adamant about everything but opened up indefinitely when there was a need for honesty. Friends who stole glances of the other’s beautiful form, whose eyes turned up towards the sky or straight out towards the horizon. Friends who lived together and talked every day, never running out of things to say. Friends who weren’t friends at all, to be blunt.

Sherlock and John eventually retreated back to their shared home, the night of shared emotions keeping tensions high as they separated and sneaked into their respected rooms.

Sherlock smiled pleasantly at the thought of telling John about his difficult personality while John replayed both the scene in the supermarket and the scene on the rooftop over in his head like the human he was.

One day the stars would align and they’d see what everyone else saw, but tonight, they slept peacefully with the thought of spending more time as good friends in the morning.


End file.
